


Sanctuary

by a_different_equation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blacksmith Sherlock Holmes, Blow Jobs, Dom Sherlock Holmes, Guard John Watson, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Secret Relationship, Sub John Watson, The Canterbury Tales - Freeform, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 18:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21002363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: England, 1230: John Watson is an ex-soldier who works as the head of the guards in his hometown. Sherlock Holmes, the local blacksmith, is his secret.





	1. Prologue

_A guard there was, and he a worthy man,_  
_ Who, from the moment that he first began_  
_ To ride about the world, loved chivalry,_  
_ Truth, honour, freedom and all courtesy._  
_ Though so illustrious, he was very wise._  
_ He was a truly perfect, gentle knight._  
_ Now, to tell you his entire array, _  
_ His steeds were good, but he was so gay. _

_With him, there was his lover, a blacksmith, _   
_With locks well curled, as if they had laid in press._   
_ Some thirty years of age he was, I guess._   
_ In stature, he was of an average length, _   
_Wondrously active, aye, and great of strength._   
_ He slept no more than does a nightingale._   
_ Courteous he was, humble, willing and able, _   
_At least before his lover in the stable._

\- "**The Alternative Canterbury Tales**" by Anonymous

* * *

Once up a time, as they say in all the old fairy tales, there was a man named John Watson who was a soldier in His majesty’s army.

His wisdom and his skill at fighting wars had made him one of the fiercest warriors of his day.

When he was shot with an arrow on the battlefield in his shoulder, they sent him home to England.

It was a long march, and it is here, in the city of Doyle, that my story "**The Blacksmith and the Guard**" begins.

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is written by me. Apologies to Geoffrey Chaucer to make his "Canterbury Tales" even more gay than he did centuries ago.


	2. Welcome to Doyle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> First: Sorry for the delay. The fic is outlined and will be finished. I promise (more regular updates)! It's far too much fun writing about guard!John who has found his very own master in local blacksmith Sherlock Holmes :)
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments, kudos and enthusiastic response on tumblr for "Sanctuary". That a prologue could already stir such an interest... I'm baffled and very pleased -- and never ever change, my loyal readers and cheerleader extraordinaire <3
> 
> Today we're going to meet all the important people. Apologies to Geoffrey Chaucer that I queered his tale ever further; I regret nothing :D
> 
> Endless gratitude to totallysilvergirl who is an medieval expert as well as an editor to kill for. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Welcome to Doyle!

It is not during spring time when this particular story starts. No April rains have soaked deep into the dry ground to water the flowers’ roots; and no Zephyrus, the god of the west wind, has helped new flowers to grow everywhere. This story is not so much about a religious pilgrimage to spiritual places either. 

And yet, "**The Tale of the Blacksmith and the Guard**" is about a journey that starts and ends in Doyle. To follow them, I should probably introduce you to the thirteen in this group —who they are, what they do for a living, and what they are all wearing. 

* * *

  
  


I’ll start by telling you about the mayor.

**Mycroft Holmes**, a proud man, runs the town of Doyle. 

He is both wise and slightly suspicious of everything. Mycroft Holmes chooses his words carefully, always. He has served as the judge in a criminal court before, and his vast knowledge and wisdom has made him famous. He has earned a lot of money as a judge and has become a great and powerful landowner. He knows all too well that trades made his fortune and that if he does not please the merchants, it will be his downfall. He has memorized all of the laws, court cases, and decisions in England over the last 300 years and can therefore write the most perfect legal document. 

Mycroft Holmes doesn't really want to be bribed, but in the end, he loves the feeling of power more than the money. Because as much as it pleases him when someone above his own station, be it a nobleman or man of the cloth, pays a visit – and God, did he remember the grace when his archbishop once set foot in the town –, there is something pleasing about everyday life when he is the ruler of right and wrong, the maker of fate on earth.

Mycroft Holmes keeps many elegant horses, and when he rides them you can hear their bridle bells jingle as clearly as the bells of the monastery. He is a famous breeder for greyhounds too. He loves to go hunting, and his favorite catch is a fine fat swan. 

He spares no expense pursuing this hobby. It is therefore no surprise to see that the finest fur lined the cuffs of his sleeves.

In the future, he will use a fancy golden pin to fasten his hood. In fact, it appears to be a love knot, a symbol of enduring love. Its origin will be unknown to the public (It was made by his brother, a bastard. His lover is a male. We all have secrets, it gives us power.)

* * *

The next group that is important to our talr are merchants. Two of them I pick out by name: Magnusson and Lestrade. 

The first has a forked beard and wears clothes that look like a jester’s. He is a foreigner. This businessman wears a beaver hat from Denmark and has expensive-looking boots. He speaks very seriously, making sure that everyone knows how wealthy and successful he is. He is particularly obsessed with making sure that the navy maintained order in the North Sea between England and Scandinavia. He plays the markets well and sells a lot of Danish money in currency exchanges. This guy is pretty smart all right: He carries himself so well that no one suspected he is really heavily in debt. His name is **Charles Augustus Magnussen **(or is it** Milverton**?).

**Gregory Lestrade**, is actually a good man. 

Yet he would argue that since he had had to wed as this is the way to heaven, then the world should not complain if he calls his marriage a living hell. “I have a wife, the worst that may be,” Lestrade would say on every occasion, “she is cruel, she is malicious, she is a shrew.” 

There was an incident with the miller. The miller had announced his plan of a betrothal, and while **Sebastian Wilkes** had been praising his intended bride’s good looks, the merchant had first turned pale and then interrupted him without even an apology. In a booming voice, Gregory Lestrade blurted out that he could tell as much about his sorrows as about his wife’s cursedness. 

A divorce might be in order (and a far better wife might be found quickly as she had been his mistress since the day Lestrade first laid eyes on her), but it is not proper, and the church would certainly not approve. But sadly, no one would listen to the gossip of commoners. 

* * *

In particular, the abbess rarely does.

Oh, she prays for the lost souls. Every day she calls upon heaven, whenever one crosses her path – and they hasten away when they see her coming because of her reputation – and **Sister Mary** repeats endlessly to never judge anyone, as there’s only one final judgement day. And yet she is quick to say, day in, day out, judgemental things about anything and anyone. 

If someone tries to point this out – God forbid – the wretch can be sure to receive a harsh reply and the reproof, “Don’t you know who I am?” 

Sister Mary speaks French fluently—though still with an English accent. God knows why… 

She prides herself on her proper manners and etiquette. 

For example, she always serves herself small portions and takes small bites of food so that none might fall out of her mouth or get her fingers too messy. And before taking a drink, she would dab her lip with a napkin so that food doesn't get all over her cup. She goes to great lengths to appear well mannered and worthy of being an abbess.

(The street urgins love to imitate her behaviour, in particular, after Sunday mess as it's more risky but also more thrilling fun. Some people say that their perfomances get them more money than they recieve by the charity of Sister Mary herself.)

She has a fine nose, bright eyes, a small red mouth, and a broad forehead. 

She wears a pretty cloak and a well-pressed cloth around her neck. Around her arm she wears a rosary made of coral beads, and on this string of beads hung a golden brooch with the letter A and the inscription _ Amor vincit onmnia _—love conquers all.

However, unknown to her, the locals have an alternative reading: ** _A_ **ppearances are deceiving. 

* * *

The bakery is lovely, yet their baked goods are not always that edible. 

What should one say? The widow of the late baker is a kind-hearted woman and **Mistress Hudson** gives everyone an opportunity, even if they might not yet (or ever) have the skills required for the job. 

It is a good place for the poor, as their starvation is put to rest here and not at the abbey. The food might be dry, sometimes close to coal, but it is kindness that helps them survive, as the soul hungers for it. 

You can spot Martha Hudson in the crowd by her formidable hats. Once she wore a hat that was as wide as a shield, sharp spurs, and a pleated cloak over her legs to keep the mud off her dress. She also likes to wear tightly laced red stockings and comfortable shoes, and her kerchiefs are made of high-quality fabric. 

In fact, her Sunday hats are so nice they must weigh ten pounds. She is so good at weaving cloth that she is even better than the famous weavers from the cities of Ypres and Ghent in Flanders.

Mistress Hudson has lived a full life, a woman who had five husbands, and as she says herself, three good and two bad ones. “The three were good, and rich, and old, and God help me, I laugh when I think about how I made them feel. They loved me so well, by God above, so I never told them that I loved them in return.” 

To her the young girls go for advice--she who knows all about courtship, about hardship, about love and loss. 

She can ruffle Sister Mary's feathers when she calls out the hypocrisy of virginity, oh yes; Mrs. Hudson is not one for mincing words. Once she came upon Sister Mary and told her, without batting an eyelash, “I’m looking forward to marrying a sixth time, whenever I meet him. I don’t want to abstain from sex forever, you know.”

* * *

The local barber is also a strong woman, speaking up when her maids are treated poorly by one of the artisans in town. 

**Molly Hooper** allows no harsh words against them: yes, they might be chatty, yes, they might be soft in their heads, yes, they all talk only of men, but that’s no reason for Phillip Anderson to yell at them and call them names. They were only asking him politely if he wanted to have a bath, some herbal soap, a massage, all proper, and if he jumped to a conclusion, surely he was at fault. Yes, it might not be wise to ask a strong man, such things, and yes, they understood now that it had made him the laughing-stock of his lads, but if they’ve learned a lesson, so shall he. 

It helped that the wealthiest merchant in town – Gregory Lestrade – called her his wife (while having an actual wife that was not the barber, mind you), but that is the way of life, and the carpenter paid his price: the judge voted in the barber’s favour. 

After all, it was not Molly Hooper’s fault that one fine morning in the month of May, she had been walking through the garden at sunrise, singing like an angel and picking flowers to make new soap. 

She had worn her favourite dress, and her brown hair had been tied in a single braid. Her cheeks were so rosy that I could not even say if they or the roses were a truer red. 

In her defence, she had said that she had woken up early because May itself had seemed to say, “Wake up! Get out of bed! Spring has sprung!” 

It also happened to be the garden of the merchant that Molly was taking a stroll in. 

It was a bright sunny day, and Gregory Lestrade was pacing back and forth in his office, feeling sorry for himself and wishing he had never been born. And by chance, Lestrade caught a glimpse of Molly through the windows. 

He admitted later, in hushed tones, that he was not sure if she was a woman or a goddess. “But you must be the goddess of beauty, Venus herself.” He had vowed to himself on the spot: “If she doesn’t allow me to see her again, I am going to die.” 

Thank God that Molly Hooper is a romantic.

* * *

The parish clerk at the local church is a man named **James Moriarty**. 

He wears red leggings with latticed shoes that go high up his leg and a light blue shirt that fits him smartly. On top of this he wears a surplice, the long white tunic that parish clerks often wear. 

He is also knowledgeable, though: he can write legal contracts for property sales or other agreements. 

Moreover, he knows how to sing, dance all the new songs, and play the fiddle. 

He also knows how to fiddle around with the ladies, if you know what I mean. In fact, there is not a tavern in town where he would not play, especially if they have comely little serving-maids there. 

**Sally Donovan** , so one hears, is his favourite for the time being, making the local carpenter, **Phillip Anderson**, green with jealousy.

Even Miss Donavon has been visiting Mr. Anderson when his wife was by her family in the North. Apparently, she has been scrubbing the floor, as a very observant man remarked: "The state of her knees, can't you see it!" It had been a rather turbulent market day... and only partly the hot summer sun had been to blame for the heated argument that followed.

* * *

There was the potter, the cloth maker, the woodworker, and many more.

These men all belong to a guild. Because they belonged to a guild, they all wear similar clothing too, which seems to have been made just recently. They wear expensive accessories, including purses, belts, and even fancy knives with handles made of pure silver. 

Their wives - no doubt - have pushed them to take such positions of power in the guild because they too would benefit from being married to men of such prestige.

On market day one could hardly move. There are noises, smells and tastes. 

Eventually, they all end up in the tavern of **Mike Stamford** for a drink or two. He prepares tasty dishes — spicy chicken and tarts and whatnot. The man certainly knows a good beer when he sees one and can roast, broil, fry. His chicken stew is particularly good. 

* * *

There is** Sherlock Holmes**, the local blacksmith, who always works alone, who lives alone and rarely speaks with anyone. Not even the jovial Stamford who runs the tavern can draw him in. 

They need him but they do not want to need him, and if anyone in the nearby area were as skilled as him, they would surely run Holmes out of town. 

He is quick as a whip with his words, brash and sarcastic, and he has perfected the haughty stare of a non-believer in Sunday service. When he first arrived they dragged him to the dungeon, regularly, almost like clockwork, sometimes even for good reasons, but there’s no fun in it if someone’s reply to the sentence is, “How dull.” 

People want a spectacle, and Sherlock Holmes is more a centre of attention when he is working. 

Because his work is almost as strikingly beautiful as the man is himself.

* * *

Last but not least, there is the man who started it all: **John Watson**, who is now the captain of the guards. 

When he thinks of these guardsmen, he remembers that if the city should fall they would have the mercy of death; he, however, would carry the shame of it for the rest of his life. 

Watson has seen enough battle, blood, and loss for one lifetime, and his men know that his words ring true. 

John Watson is a strict master, easy with swear words and hard labour, and he demands discipline, but he is loved by his guardsmen. Whenever he is sent to the dungeons for speaking up – again – he can be sure that his guards will manage to smuggle some leftover food down to him. 

* * *

It is a tough life in the year of 1230, but it is what it is. Or so they all thought (and some even believed). 

However, this is all to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Welcome to Doyle" (Ch2) is inspired by Geoffrey Chaucer's "General Prologue", aka the introduction text of his "Canterbury Tales".   
I guess that everyone recognized Mrs Hudson inspired by "The Wife of Bath". Have you spotted the others?  
When the fic is finished, I'll updated the full list.


	3. The Tale of the Guardsmen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome (back) to "Sanctuary"!
> 
> Without further delay, it's time for the canon (!) rimjob in "The Canterbury Tales" to get the Johnlock treatment. Last time to turn around, as from now on the rating is for a reason^^
> 
> Ade

It starts where most journeys end: in the tavern. The tavern’s name is Criterion, not that names are important overall. In those days it was more important to know people of influence, and even those change rapidly. It is a Monday when John Watson inquires about Sherlock Holmes, the local blacksmith.

Mike Stamford replies, “You know, I’m not sure. I’ve not seen him since Saturday. I think he went out of town to buy wood from the woodcutter. You know, the one Sister Mary doesn't approve of. He usually stays there for a couple of days before coming back. Either he’s there or he’s at home. I really don’t know.”

“Doesn’t he have a boy he can send to fetch the wood?”

“Holmes?” The jovial tavern owner bellows with laughter. The rest of the crowd joins in. John is confused and his face shows as much, and Stamford pats him on the left shoulder. John Watson tries not to wince, but a quick glance at his old mate shows that he has not succeeded. Once more he silently curses the war and its remaining scar.

It leads to a more sombre conversation, at least if one does not count Phillip Anderson who spits out, “Because he’s a loony.”

Stamford has to hold Watson back, he who is suddenly furious, protective of the enigmatic man whom he has only met once. 

It is unwise to show such an emotion, but the cheap alcohol has flowed during the night and covers his outburst. All is loud and cheery, and if the normally restrained John Watson is a bit more open, then so be it. All will be forgotten by morning, at least, by the other townspeople.

“Holmes works alone, always,” explains Stamford. “I wanted to get one of my boys to get into training, but no such luck. He looked him up and down, and told me no. No pleading, no extra coin, nothing. He works alone, lives alone, and he prefers it that way.”

He pats the guard another time on the shoulder, more gently this time, as if to say, “I’m sorry, Watson.”

For a second John Watson is crushed but he perks up when he hears half an hour later that Holmes has returned to Doyle at last. Apparently, Lestrade walked into him earlier: “I asked him to come along, but you know how he is...”

All the men nod, but John Watson observes the good Mistress Hudson frowning. She who needs to raise up early stays often the longest. Oh, she complains about her hip -- and Molly Hooper is quick to offer her a herbal soother then ("But only just once, my dear!") -- but to abstain from the local gossip is impossible for her.

Now, Martha Hudson's lips curl in a small smile, barely recognisable. It is almost as if she knows that the guard can spot it. 

She whispers to him later, “Say hello to him for me later, won’t you.” With a wink, she adds, “be a _ good _ boy.” In addition, after a second, while handing him another beer, she whispers, “He likes it that way...” looking at him critically, “and I think you will like it too.”

John Watson will never find out how the widow of Doyle knows what he has planned. What he had told himself, recalling it every hour to encourage himself: 

_ Tonight I am going to knock quietly on Sherlock’s bedroom window. I might be getting a kiss out of it. _

_I've been having urges all day long. _

_Last night I dreamt about giving myself to him. It terrified me, and thrilled me too. _

_So I’ll catch a few hours of sleep, then stay up late and drink with the others to keep up the façade, and visit him just before sunrise. _

* * *

  
  


When the roosters begin crowing just before dawn, John Watson wakes up and carefully gets ready. He chews some liquorice to make his breath smell sweet, then he combs his hair and gets dressed. Finally he puts a leaf of mint under his tongue so that his kisses would taste good. When he’s finished he makes his way over to the smithy.

He goes to what he assumes to be the blacksmith’s bedroom window, so low it only comes up to his chest. 

Watson clears his throat, then raps on the window, and says, “Hello? Holmes? “

“Get away from my window, you jack fool!” The blacksmith calls from inside the house. “So help me, Watson, go away and let me sleep or else I’ll throw rocks at you!”

While Watson ponders about making a quick exit and never crossing path with the other man again, Holmes asks all of a sudden, "Will you go away if I give you a kiss?” Because the blacksmith's voice is rough, the guard assumes that he has been sleeping. Back then, Watson was unaware of his erratic sleeping schedule.

“Yes, of course,” answers Watson, a bit overwhelmed, his heart beating fast.

“Get ready then,” Holmes calls out to him. “I’m coming but be quiet, do you understand, Watson?”

The guard kneels down beneath the window ledge and says to himself, “Faith, I am good! Whatever you give, I will take!”

And in a way, he suspects that Holmes senses his willingness as the blacksmith quickly opens the window and says, “Come now, hurry up. Let’s get this over with before the neighbours see us.”

Watson wipes his lips dry to prepare for the kiss. It is so pitch black outside that he cannot see a thing, which means that the guard cannot see that the blacksmith has thrust his naked arse out of the window instead of his head. 

Watson leans in and kisses him deeply in the middle of his ass.

Sensing something not quite right, he pulls back in surprise and quickly realises what has happened.

John Watson cries like a baby all his way back to his bed.

_ What wickedness has befallen him? What beast has woken up in him? Because he thinks he wants to swear off all of this, to spit at Sherlock Holmes in disgust, but really all he wants is to do it again. _

In his dreams that night, the past event haunts him. He is rolling in his bunk, sweating profoundly, and thank god, he has his own little chamber because his men would detect immediately that it is not nightmares that plague him now. For once it is not the experience of the battlefield, instead it is another hellfire. Oh, it burns inside him, hot, fierce, and insatiable.

The flames lick at him, nagging at him. This other hellfire torments him, calls to him, and makes him twist and turn, burning bright. First, it is simply the events of the night, in all its glory, that replay in his mind, then his vision gets more heated still, playing it out, and then, it must be around dawn, the dream changed one last time. When John wakes up with a jolt, his inner watch still working, he is not sure anymore if this indeed is the real version:

_ Holmes bends down behind him and runs his tongue flat over his entrance. _

_ Watson shouts, he cannot help it. His hands clench in the sheets. He rocks back and arches his hips up, pressing up against Holmes’ mouth. _

_ Holmes circles him with his tongue, wetting his lover and exploring him. Everything is hot, wet, and slick. _

_ It is a new game, and they both want to win. _

_ Watson might be new to it, but he has found his master already. _

_ His master who at the third mark presses his tongue inside his puckered hole and John Watson cries out even louder. _

_ “Yes, yes, yes... Holmes, master, please!” _

_ Holmes draws back, wiping his chin and smirking. _

_ “Master?” he teases. _

_ Watson almost sobs. _

_ “Master, sir, Sherlock, I don’t care, Holmes. Please, don’t stop.” _

_ In return, his lover probes him with the tip just to listen to him beg and squirm. _

_Saliva drips down the back of his balls, and the guard begins to rock his hips against the mattress. _

It’s twilight already when his body finds sleep.

* * *

John Watson’s guardsmen rise in the early hours from sleeping on hard beds, bunked together, no privacy. They put on their clothes, and they itch. They smell but a bath is a luxury, and they do not frequent a barber. On some days, they sweat when it is barely ten o’clock, and on some days, they fight over the sunny spots when the winter comes early. Yet, they cannot.

All they can do is sit at their table, together, waiting until their master appears, until the prayer is spoken, until John Watson has put the first bite into his mouth, and then it is finally their turn to still their hunger for an hour or so, as healthy meals are rare. Bread, some beef, cheese, marmalade, it is still more than most have for breakfast.

Their duties are many. One major duty is to guard the gates. Day in, day out, they stand: two guardsmen, standing straight, opening and closing the gates. Asking for the password, and only then granting access. The three most important rules: never trust anyone, accept no bribes, and be ready to die.

Another duty is to collect the taxes. It seems like an easier job, but who can read and write properly? There are complaints, there are threats, there are tears, and they still have to have their wits about them and do the maths. 

There were sweet lads--and John’s heart broke but it had to be done--who had to be dismissed, as they were unable to repeat three sentences: “God bless you. We are here to bring you to the guild hall for the registry. Please, follow us immediately.” Registry was indeed a difficult word, but it was part of their job to keep an account of the people’s whereabouts. People free to come and go as they pleased? And best of all, without payment? What an outlandish concept: no, that was not proper.

A third duty is to enforce that everyone follows the laws, and if someone, let us say, acts in a blasphemous or unnatural manner, or simply has no money to pay the taxes when they are raised suddenly, the guardsmen ensure that they are taught a lesson. The whip doesn't hurt as much when dry as when it has been put into water prior. The lads don't understand the physics behind it, but they understand very fast to always obey their master.

At noon, they have the midday meal. Soup every day; there is not much variety in it, and even less meat. The only thing they can have in large quantities is water, chilly from the well. Their youngest recruit, a lad of maybe ten years, is sent to fetch water several times a day. He rushes to clean the table afterwards as well. It might be a task for women, but there are no women here. The fair sex cannot carry a weapon, let alone guard a city.

There is a particular way to stand guard. John Watson has been the captain of the guards for almost a decade and was trained as a soldier before; he has wielded a sword for a lifetime, yet even he finds it difficult to explain.

You are not born to the task, even though some men seem to be bred for it, but you have to be trained long and hard, until it seems second nature to you. That one day, you wake up and the service is a part of your life. 

“You can spot them in the crowd”, or so someone very dear to John Watson said to him years ago. On his first day, in fact, a new face in town, a bit lost and he had found him. 

Anyway, Watson knows that he has to rein himself in. Blundering about, chattering, will do him no good. 

The air of a guard: All the muscles in your body are tensed up, and yet, you have calmness in your mind. You should be ready to attack, and yet, you have a neutral expression on your face. Even when you kill someone, the moment before you strike you should issue your commands politely.

The master’s rules are easy, the same as everywhere: when you do not listen to your master, you do not need your ears; hence, they will be cut off. When you raise your voice against your master or speak without being asked, your tongue will be cut off. When you steal, your hands are cut off; when you leave your post, your feet are cut off, and so on. The most valuable finger is your thumb, hence, watch out for it. If you lose your little finger, that is nothing; but without a thumb, you will never yield a sword again.

The complete attire of a guard weighs around thirty pounds.

Cleaning all the gear takes around thirty hours.

You could work as a guard for thirty years – not that you would ever live so long – and you could still not afford to buy it all on your own. Not that you could buy a lot with the salary of a guard in the first place. The only one who gets a bit more money, and some say almost most in town, is John Watson himself. There is talk that he sends most of it to his sister.

* * *

John Watson’s sister had been seen in town once. Her name is Harriet. She had to be a fallen woman, looking like that. That she loved a drink was less scandalous. There had been talk that she had sweet-talked one of the merchant’s maids. Her name is Clara, she disappeared when Harriet Watson left Doyle for good. Some people believed that they ran away together. Surely she had been a harlot, trying to recruit the poor girl for her trade. 

Such things – easy women, whores, harlots, prostitutes – do not exist in this town, or rather not in the open.

There comes a time in which one has to be in the favour of the mayor and one poor wretch has no money to spare and only her body to offer in exchange, or some women who pretend to suffer while hoping to father a bastard and with it a safe future - both situations are easily resolved in the mayor's favour. The man is openly married to his work.

There is always a daughter not skilled enough to learn a trade in a family that can only feed so many mouths, or a poor widow with a husband unfit for work, missed at war or away far too often for too long, that needs must and found a way. Lastly, there are too many marriage arrangements which have their financial benefits but there is no love to be found. A body is another currency, and sometimes when the coin cannot be found in time when the mayor imposes a new tax, one could pay in other ways, and the mayor finds the coin or notes that the tax is already paid. 

John Watson knows, and looks the other way.

And because John Watson looks the other way, Mycroft Holmes looks the other way too.

* * *

John Watson gets offers, surely, fewer if people see his ghastly shoulder wound, but as no one ever sees him bare-chested, there are a few. (Every woman loves a soldier, and one man loves this particular ex-soldier, but he would never say it aloud.)

When new people come into town, they try to bribe him or pay fewer taxes. Some of them, when they don't learn the lesson, end up in a dungeon, and shortly after, pack their things and are thrown out of town. 

The ones who dare to offer their partners or even their children for Watson’s pleasure do well to flee in the night, because his reactions are furious. With the approval of the mayor, they soon find death. 

To bribe a guard is a criminal offence--and how dare they betray their mayor! The mayor always believes that John Watson does it out of loyalty towards him and his town.

That is one reason Watson retains his position as a guard for so long: he is loyal, but not to the mayor or the town, as the mayor believes. But then, as the one reason why John Watson is loyal to the town of Doyle often says, “the mayor is an idiot.”

And to highlight his point, his lover has his hand on his crotch. “I’m going to die if I can’t have my way with you.” Then he grabs Watson’s arse and says, “Let me sod you, John!”

The guard pulls away from his impatient lover and twists out of his grap, “Stop it! We’ll be seen. Wait for me at your home.” And when the other is not willing to part yet, chasing after another kiss, Watson pushes him in the direction, “Go, go, and hurry.”


	4. The Tale of the Blacksmith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there is rarely a more fitting title to our times than “Sanctuary”. I dearly hope that wherever you are, you can find momentary sanctuary in reading my story, just like I do while writing it. Stay safe! 
> 
> This chapter wasn’t like this at all last weekend. Maybe you can spot the changes, you can surely guess the reason. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta as well as my readers. 
> 
> And... back to the blacksmith and his guard!

John Watson is Sherlock Holmes’ secret.

His bed has been John Watson’s home from the day they met: the day when John Watson had returned from war, battered and bruised, no kin except the errant sister, seeking employment in his hometown.

As Watson was a hero, the family name cleared from his service in his majesty’s army and tales of bravery accompanying him, the mayor hired him immediately. However, it was the other Holmes who had made the connection: that he was the son of the local apothecary who years ago had fallen, heavily drunk, into a ditch and died there. The only son had had to sell the family shop to pay the bills and had fled the town with the intention to join the army.

John Watson, bright-eyed, young faced, seeking adventures.

Sherlock Holmes had deduced – or so he had called it – his shoulder wound, and he had not been shocked, but intrigued.

Whenever they share a bed now, at one point Holmes will kiss his scar during the night, and even though he never utters it aloud, Watson knows that his lover thanks the stars that brought him home safe.

* * *

_"I know you're an invalided soldier, recently returned from fighting in the war, you've an arrow wound in the shoulder but it's made you lame as well - a sickness of the brain, not the limb. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock puts on a sardonic smile. The man will be running in no time, they always do. "Sherlock Holmes. I'm the blacksmith in Doyle."_

_"John, John Watson. How did you know all that?" _

_"Obvious." Sherlock snorts. "The shoulder wound is easy - the way you hold yourself, your actions, the favouring of your left side. As for the nature of your limp, you forget it when distracted. You're not accustomed to being lame, so it's a recent injury, and if it had occurred at home you had never have left. If it had been from labour you would have been given other duties, you wouldn't be travelling. So, wounded by misadventure. Hunting? No, unlikely. You don't have the stature for it, my brother has it. You're both nothing alike. So, in battle or an altercation."_

_His gaze flickers down to the stranger’s hands, his throat and then returns to his face. He registers how handsome this man is. Sherlock feels something, but pushes it away, fiercely. This John Watson will flee like everyone else. After all, he is just a man, ordinary. Yet, Sherlock cannot stop his speech, as something urging him on, making this one deduction count. It has never been a game to him, no matter what the townspeople have said, but suddenly he wants…_

_"You're from around here, there's still the local twang to your accent that a decade away couldn't erase, and yet your skin is brown. You've been in a climate far sunnier than this. The wounding is fairly recent. Your hands are used to manual labour, so not a merchant or scholar; but aren't the hands of a serf, and your cloak is not that of a beggar. So: You, John Watson, are a soldier. And as Doyle is the last village along this road, I conclude that you return home. It's simple to those who observe."_

_Watson looks at the blacksmith, awed. "That was...amazing."_

_Sherlock is pleased and slightly, oddly proud. He knows that his face shows it. And he doesn’t mind this, or his rushed, "Do you think so?"_

_"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."_

_"That's not what people normally say."_

_"Oh?" John Watson frowns. "What do they normally say?"_

_"Usually they cross themselves and spit."_

_At this John Watson grins at him, and Sherlock Holmes grins back._

* * *

The Wife of Doyle knows about Sherlock Holmed since he was born.

It’s not her real title – obviously – but it might have been, as she rules this town as if it’s hers. It was her late husband who was more the ruler, she only joined him. That he ended up in a deadly accident was – obviously – unfortunate. He fell down the stairs. It happens, in particular to a drunk head like him. He mistook her for a furniture, his own property, from time to time too, so it could have been that he slipped, thinking downstairs meant upstairs. It happens even to man more kind than the late Mr Hudson.

Sherlock Holmes is like a son to her. Her two sons gone long before her, his brother and Sherlock took their place. Mycroft is reluctant, but she persists. And there is only one person who is even more stubborn than Sherlock Holmes – Martha Hudson.

She showers them with her very own brand of affection, and oh, her boys need it. Nice words, and how they flourish! They both have a sweet tooth, and while Sherlock keeps his secret well-hidden to the outside world, he cannot hide it from her.

Just like his feelings towards John Watson.

Her boy is so smitten! He mumbled something about “fixing his lame leg” when he first menyioned him, but she is no fool, they are going to fix each other just fine.

So they are both boys? They both need love.

And she will find someone for Mycroft soon too. How does her boy calls it? The Game is afoot!

* * *

It is close to midnight, but it is not safe, not now, not ever. Yet, the blacksmith senses John Watson’s further depravity: that he craves danger. That it thrills him to be dominated by him like this.

So Sherlock Holmes whispers in the night, “My loyal John” in his ear and the head of the guards by day does his utmost to stand still and not react yet, because they both enjoy the game too much.

"Holmes…"

The blacksmith shakes his head, standing in front of John Watson in a cocky pose, hands on his hips; his body twists this way and that. "Right now, John," he insists, "Kiss it, right now." He moves a trifle closer to him and continues to flaunt his cock a bare inch from him.

Watson blushes red and glances at the open window.

Watson starts to lean forward, but Holmes steps back a pace. "On your knees," he demands.

His lovers hesitates, he is embarrassed but so turned on, finally dropping to his knees and pressing his lips to the semi-erect member.

"Tell it you love it," hisses Holmes.

"I love you," whispers Watson, letting the truth slip out.

Further questions are forced to wait, for Sherlock Holmes is not to be denied any longer. He straddles the John Watson’s chest and forces the length of his powerful, eager cock down his throat. Holding it in the cock at its maximum penetration, he stares down into his lover’s eyes until he fully submits to him.

"Everyone is a master to someone," he tells him. "As you are convinced that I am yours, I will be it."

After this, he again presses his demanding lance into his lover’s mouth.

They are on fire, forging something new, fierce and strong. Love has struck them with an arrow. Cupid, you are a merciless God. It is true what they say: nothing is as powerful as love.

When the lovers see each other, their eyes reflect their determination to meet their destiny. Because Sherlock Holmes and John Watson both are thinking: _This is my destiny. It's him or no one else. _

* * *

Molly Hooper is in awe of the blacksmith. She has been smitten with him since she was a young lass.

She is aware of his good looks. His beauty was striking even in his lanky body of his youth, not yet formed by muscles. It struck her as odd, back then, that a man like Sherlock Holmes would become a blacksmith. Surely, he could have become a scholar!

And this is what divides Molly Hooper from the majority of Doyle: she is aware of his mental capacity.

Oh, she knows the big words, her being from a slightly better background than most. Her father used to be a great teacher before fate struck.

He's not in his right mind anymore, you see. There are days on which he doesn't even recall her. It breaks her heart whenever he calls her, "Sister", as if she was a nun and not his only daughter.

Molly doesn't know what caused it. He didn't fall or got struck by an instrument. He never drank more than anyone else in town. They went to church. When it got worse, Molly even pleaded with Sister Mary to pray for him. The rosary was her constant companion for months, a daily reminder that not all could be lost.

Then he forgot her name. Then he forgot his own name. Her mother's name was forgotten already.

It was then when Molly Hooper learned the hard truth that some things are lost forever. That there are things that have no cure. All she sells is smoke and mirrors, pleasantries for the daily use, but no remedy for the nastiness of life.

Oh, Molly Hooper, always cheery, got depressed. She went from lively to forlorn, and no one except Sherlock Holmes registered it.

Make no mistake: the townspeople inquired about his father's health, they brought flowers and cake and soup, and they offered to pray. They meant it well. The people of Doyle are no bad lot, they are simply terribly human. They mirrored her own helplessness. They feared that this disease is somehow contagious, and oh, how James Moriarty turned from eager suitor to dropping her like a hot potato hurt immensely. Surely, she would understand, his dear Molly, his precious mind, etc.

It's Sherlock Holmes who tells her about the mind. About the Ancient Greeks and their medicine (or was it the Romans?), partly forgotten but to rediscover one day. He advises her to train his memory, to activate - trigger, he calls it - it. Smells are powerful, for instance, and it's that advice that consoles Molly Hooper with her occupation.

From this day on, when she prepares a salve, she smiles timidly but to the well-known observer (which basically is only Holmes who only once in a blue moon appears) can detect its source.

The last couple of weeks however, she suspects two other men to know about her situation.

How John Watson found out about it, she doesn't know. She remembers his father's apothecary and his son's ability. He's a healer who happens to be an ex-soldier too, this John Watson is a walking paradox. It's what intrigues Sherlock Holmes, Molly suspects but she isn't sure. Unlike what some people assume - and Sally Donovan is never stopping to let it slip in the Criterion - her shop is not one for gossip. She, or more her maids, can be chatty, but when it's important, she is as quiet as a mouse. And the thing between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson is important.

The other man is Gregory Lestrade. It might be more wishful thinking of her part but she senses his gaze on her more often. Once he even entered the shop to purchase a gift for his wife. It was awkward as he didn't seem to know what would please her and got cross when she suggested things that women similar to her enjoy. He is a good man, Molly Hooper is sure.

Even Sherlock Holmes said so (while misnaming him again, it's a quirk of him, and Molly Hooper secretly hopes against hope that one far off day when he's free and they can court properly, that Sherlock Holmes will call him by his name.)

* * *

  
With a new iron rod Sherlock Holmes begins to hammer on his anvil. The intense sound is his own personal symphony where he is the conductor of such beautiful music. His tool is perfectly formed within minutes which means that the process allows the blacksmith to move onto his personal favourite part: the moulding of the blade.

Placing the tip into the burning fire, the blacksmith watches in awe as his masterpiece glows with fury, immediately placed back on the anvil he begins to mould. Once, twice and thrice he hits the same position of the blade causing the rod to grow flatter, then immediately flips the blade to remove the ridges of his hammer.

  
When all is done, he moves one inch up and begins the whole process again.

It is truly a task one must grow to endure; his body already drenched in sweat, yet wearing his leather waistcoat is a necessity. The beads of sweat from his forehead hit the iron causing the metal to hiss; with one final hit, he placed the blade back into the flames. His back is drenched, his shirt is almost transparent, and with one swift movement, both waistcoat and shirt are removed. Until then it has been his everyday routine, his so-called life which showed to be barely more than a dull existence.

The last act has been a pure show, and Sherlock discovers how much he craves it: an audience, willing, raptured, in awe.

He knows that John Watson watches him. It should distract him, just like the chatter of the town people distracts him, and yet... the opposite effect is true: his lover’s presence keeps him focused.

With John’s eyes tracing his body, it is as if his muscles are willing to go the extra mile, to show off his strength, to offer John something to admire besides his ironwork. As if his body, muscled and marked, is something worthy too, that it is worthy of admiration but more than the lusty stares of the newcomers who haven’t heard him talk or haven’t encountered the town’s gossip; it is as if he, Sherlock Holmes, is an object and a subject, an object of admiration and a subject of adoration, and isn’t that a heady thought.

He who is bound to the work, who makes chains for a living, feels that he can breathe easier even while his breathing speeds up in his presence and the hot fire does his work.

Oh, the music of love!

tbc


	5. The Tale of the Mayor

Destiny, the hand of God, will happen throughout the world. It's so powerful that no movement can stop it. People might be able to postpone the inevitable, but ultimately their fate is sealed.

Even if it takes a thousand years, and people believe they have a chance, it will happen because it's ineffable.

I will explain what I mean by telling you more about Mycroft Holmes, the mayor of Doyle.

* * *

As you recall from the prologue, the older Holmes loves hunting. Especially in the spring he wakes at the crack of dawn to pursue his pleasure.

Unknown to him, he is on his way to the clearing where his brother and his lover are meeting. Mycroft Holmes has taken quite a roundabout to get there, passing trees in full bloom and gurgling streams, because he wants to expand his experience.

When the mayor reaches the clearing at last, he spots them immediately. At first, he suspects them to be in a vicious battle. Then it dawns on him that they make the beast with the two backs.

To say that Mycroft Holmes' world is turned into shambles is an understatement. He knows them, but he has never known them to be friends, let alone like that: his brother is a sodomite and his guard is his catamite!

He jumps between the men to stop them. He draws up a sword and yells, "Stop! Enough! I swear to God I will kill you both if you don't stop immediately!"

Obviously, they have separated already.

They are breathing heavily. The guard is at least searching for his clothes.

Mycroft Holmes' younger brother is unperturbed, fierce and determined. Sherlock isn't covering up his shame as he feels none. He fixes his older brother with a glare, challenging him. When the mayor doesn't react, he speaks out.

"Brother mine, just let us be. Neither of us is willing to change. Alas, we cannot. We are who we are, and we love who we love. It's so simple that even you can grasp it." It might not be wise words for some, but the right ones for others. "If we cannot live our love in secret, then simply kill us now, Mycroft. I don't care, as there is no life without John by my side." At last, after a short pause, he who never went to war on paper, battles on, "We both live such awful lives, prisoners of love, so I beg you to not interfere. I love him. I cannot expect you to understand but I ask you to turn your eyes away. Otherwise, kill us here and now as punishment and end our pain, as we don't want to be apart from each other."

It's no easy decision, not now or in 1230.

When the anger has passed, Mycroft Holmes observes and deduces. After all, he is a man of reason. He has claimed that love is a terrible disadvantage, and how his brother has proved him right!

He examines their problem and concludes that a man as smart as his brother would have chosen another path if another solution had existed. Sure, he wouldn't put it past him to simply wish to scandalise him, but to put John Watson in danger also? No, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever improbable, must be the truth… which means that Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson.

Mycroft Holmes isn't averse to love per se. He simply chooses not to. Yet, he loves his brother, a true bastard he might be, so he wants him to be content.

Further, as I had said prior: the mayor enjoys being the maker of fate on earth. On this day, he plays the executor of fate.

"I am going to forgive you, brother mine, and John, my brother-in-law. But both of you have to promise me that in exchange for my forgiveness you will be my allies in Doyle."

Even Sherlock shook hands in thanks with his brother. The men all have tears in their eyes. They swear to secrecy.

They collect their things and head home. Well, can anyone be happier than Sherlock Holmes or can anyone grin as broad as John Watson? It's time to continue what they started in the clearing.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes is shaking like a leaf all the way back to his house. Oh, it isn't obvious to the ordinary people, but he is close to sending a "Thank God" to Heaven because neither Magnusson nor Moriarty passed him.

He knows about those to men, or more accurately, about men like them, vile but snakelike, ready to strike at any moment. And when it happens, they will smile because it brings them pleasure. It abhors Mycroft Holmes that such people exist in his town - as he calls it his - but he knows that he needs to act as if it's just another business. You have to contain them as much as possible as control them is impossible.

Years before, Mycroft Holmes was foolish enough to believe he could control them. It was like a pact with a devil (and Holmes doesn't believe in religion in private, they know about this too), and his brother's life was the bargain.

Oh yes, his secret was spilled as if his effort of a lifetime was nil (that they share a mother, and that Mycroft has to keep Mummy out of it on top of everything is challenging. The brothers inherit her intelligence, you see). Magnusson hinted at it, spoke about letters, and offered people coming forward to give a confession. The Dane mentioned an influential man who was fortunate enough to get a visit by the archbishop in the next month - who might that have been? It was a barely veiled threat. It was then when Mycroft Holmes learned that Magnusson was a blackmailer.

It was plague or cholera, and Mycroft Holmes wasn't sure if Moriarty was more plague or cholera, as he was as vile as Magnusson. Moriarty only hid it far better. It was almost praiseworthy how he played the ordinary man; he even went so far as courting Molly Hooper for a while!

While Magnusson never skipped an occasion to remind everyone of his power he held over people (including Sister Mary, which was something, Mycroft has grudgingly to admit), Moriarty was more subtle. His brother once compared him with a spider in a net, and now, looking back, Mycroft agrees.

Those two men could never find out the truth. It would be the downfall, the ruin of them all.

Mycroft Holmes knows what society and religion have to say about that topic. Oh, and the mayor can easily paint a very vivid, very nasty picture of Sister Mary's rage, apologies, lecture. However, men like Magnusson and Moriarty are a greater threat than two lovers, or so he thinks. What they do is a victimless crime, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson do it out of love, something the other two men would never do, less understand. For them, it would be a weakness, and they would act accordingly. Therefore, Mycroft Holmes has to do his utmost that this secret never sees the light of day.

He has failed his brother once. Mycroft cannot fail him twice.

* * *

It was James Moriarty who Mycroft had met first. Appearance can be deceiving, and the mayor had believed him to be a simple clerk. He had known that Moriarty was intelligent, but stupidly Mycroft had hoped to make a bargain with him. Originally, he had wished to reason with him, only to realise that this man was a madman.

It had been an ordinary day, and the sunset was near. All day Mycroft had been busy, now he looked forward to dinner. His cook was a treasure. He had a particular good wine in the cellar to go with the food.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door but before he could react, a man entered. That he – the mayor of Doyle - didn’t give permission, apparently didn’t fazed the stranger. At second glance Mycroft recognized him: it was Moriarty. But how different did the man looked… all his bumbling fool had vanished, instead had appeared a man that was not to be trifled with.

“Good evening, mayor. How do you do?”

Not waiting for an answer, Moriarty went to his desk, all smiling.

A shiver run down Mycroft’s spine. There was something wrong about his smile. It seemed as if the room got darker with every step the clerk took. Mycroft didn’t believe in witchcraft but if there were demon wandering the earth, so James Moriarty would be a likely candidate.

“Let me tell you a story, Mr Holmes:

_One of the greatest authors people read once told a story about two brothers who set out on a holy pilgrimage. On their journey they came to a town that was so crowded with people that they couldn’t find so much as a cottage where they could both stay for the night. So, they decided to split up, and each went his own way to find somewhere to sleep. One of them found a place in an oxen barn. Fortune—who controls all our fates—smiled on the other man, who found a much better place to stay in an inn._

_Now, it just so happened that the second man had a dream about his brother in the middle of the night. His brother called to him in the dream and said, “I’m going to be murdered tonight while I’m sleeping in the barn. Hurry up and help me, dear brother, and save my life!” The second man jolted awake from the nightmare, but he quickly rolled over and fell back asleep because he thought the dream was nothing but nonsense. _

_He had this same dream again, woke with a start, and went back to sleep again. On the third time, however, his brother appeared to him and said, “I have been killed. Just look at the bloody wounds and gashes on my body! I was murdered for my money. Get up early tomorrow morning and go to the west gate of the town. There you’ll find a cart full of dung in which my body has been secretly hidden.” And with a pale and pitiful face he told his brother all about how he was robbed and murdered. _

_And wouldn’t you know, everything in the dream turned out to be true. _

_When the second man woke up in the morning, he set out for the oxen barn where his brother had stayed. When he got there, he began looking for him and calling out his name._

_The owner of the barn soon appeared and said, “Sir, your brother has already left. He woke up early this morning and split.” _

_Remembering his dreams from last night, the pilgrim was suspicious and ran to the west gate of the town. There, he found a cart of dung intended to be used as fertiliser, just as his brother had described in the dream. Outraged, he cried out at the top of his lungs for vengeance and justice. “Help! My brother was murdered last night, and his body lies in this cartload of dung. Guards!” The townspeople rushed out, tipped over the cart, and found the man’s body buried beneath a ton of dung._

Apologies, mayor, for the gruesome tale. I cannot hide that I found a certain thrill in it, it brings me… _joy_. Death gives the life purpose, doesn’t it? And you know all about purpose, don’t you?”

Still rattled by the story, Mycroft Holmes came up empty. His mind was blank or full, he couldn’t say. He suddenly started to sweat, his body’s betrayal agitating him further. Desperately, he hoped that his hands weren’t shaking.

“What do you want?”

He developed a stammer now. Why was he so weak? He wanted to shed his human skin, but when looking into the pool-black eyes of his opponent he recoiled. This clerk reminded him suddenly of a snake himself.

“Oh, nothing, Mr Holmes. All I wanted was to let you know that I am aware of the fact that there’s another Mr Holmes in Doyle.” Another unsettling smile, then he walked out of the room. Before closing the door, he almost sung, “Goodbye Mr Holmes, all the best to your _brother_, mayor.”

His cook was heartbroken when he refused to eat anything that night.

Mycroft Holmes almost sleepwalked to his work the following day. All night, he had tossed and turned in his bed. He had barely slept. His observant cook – damn, the woman – was alarmed when he had refused breakfast this morning.

Full of hope – which was unlike him too – he entered his office. Only to recoil when he came face to face with a man already waiting for him. This time it wasn’t Moriarty but Magnusson.

Without further ado, the foreign merchant closed the door behind the mayor. Then he pointed him to sit down on the chair reserved for visitors while he took a seat in Mycroft Holmes’ own chair.

“Where shall we begin, mayor? Let’s pick up where the other visitor stopped last night. We don’t want to miss something _vital_ from the story, do we?

_I also read in the next chapter of that same book—and I’m not making this up—that a man dreamed about his own death right before he set out on a voyage to cross the sea. _

_He and his brother had some business or other in another country across the sea, but they had to wait a while at port until the winds were favourable. And finally, when the winds did change, the two men agreed to set out the next morning. _

_That night, however, one of the men dreamed just before dawn that a man was standing over his bed, who said, “If you sail tomorrow, you will drown.” The man woke up, told his brother about the dream, and suggested that they wait one more day before setting sail._

_First, his brother, who was sleeping in the next bunk over, laughed at the man, and said, “No dream is going to keep me from sailing tomorrow. I don’t give a damn about your dreams because dreams are filled with nothing but nonsense.” However, the older brother knew how to convince his brother with a trick, as he replied, “Then, dear brother, you would never miss the opportunity to prove me wrong. Let’s wait just one day, and if nothing happens, you can call me a fool.”_

_And so, the next morning the crew set out on the voyage without the two brothers. But before they made it even halfway across the sea, somehow the ship’s bottom split in two and sank in plain sight of all the other ships in the convoy, killing everyone on board. So, you see, no one can be too careful when it comes to dreams because many of them are to be feared._

_The older brother was not only wise but also kind: he never called his little brother a fool, but instead was forever grateful to have listen to the warning. The brother might have been sulking for a day or two, and their relationship might be a bit strained for a while as the younger brother thought himself the smart one and he might call his brother overbearing and all-knowing, but in his heart the older brother knew that his decision was the right one.” _

From this day on in particular the last sentence was engraved into Mycroft Holmes head. 

One didn't need to have the mental capacity of the Holmes' brothers to deduce that both men - Moriarty and Magnusson - were giving them a final warning. Apparently the rumour were true: the first were the master of crime and the latter was the master of blackmail, and together they enjoyed his victims to dance to their very own tune.

Magnusson had left him without further ado, the bastard – as for him, it was the only proper name – actually had offered his hand for a goodbye. Mycroft Holmes had been tempted to spit him in his face. However, his parents – and yes, including their father – had raised him better.

To protect his brother has been his first priority, ever since his mummy had shown him his little brother in his crib. He had failed him, it would not happen again.

* * *

When Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stumble over the threshold of the smithy, they have every intention to make it to the bedchamber as fast as possible. They shed their outerwear quickly, by now accustomed to the nakedness. Their breathing is heavy, they heartbeat loud in their chest.

Their action is a bit reckless as it is daylight already. Doyle awakes, and they return to bed. It might not be wise, but people in love rarely are.

_This is our sanctuary_

_We can find shelter and peace_

_This is our sanctuary_

_You are, you are safe with me_

tbc


	6. The Tale of the Two Lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to me & a gift to you: an all-new chapter of "Sanctuary".
> 
> It's time for the BDSM tag, as well of a tableau of Medieval England through the eyes of womankind. 
> 
> We go places in ch6 - care to come along?
> 
> Ade

Dear reader, I ask you a question: Who is worse off, the love between two men or the lust between a married man and a virgin maiden who is promised to another man?

As for the first couple: he is no nobleman, but a guard, and his secret lover is a bastard. Their love is true but forbidden, unnatural some might even say.

The other couple consists of a merchant and an artisan. He is wealthy, so he can abuse his power to live his affair in the open. She is an independent woman, but also a hopeless romantic. It's infidelity in the eyes of the law, but they call it love.

Who is right?

* * *

“Rise, Margot! It’s Sunday. We go to the church. Put on your best dress, hurry up. The people should not believe I am not the man in the house.” Molly wakes up slowly, barely registers her father’s sudden activity. “And after service we will go for a walk, maybe to the next town, visit your aunt. What do you think? It’s such a sunny day. Or do you want to stay in bed?”

This, obviously, isn’t Molly’s intention at all. She hastens after her father, rushing to prepare herself and the breakfast.

Soon they leave the house together. 

They live a simple life since her mother died, and they don't have much. Still, she manages to support herself, her father and her two maids with what she owns, which includes three pigs and a sheep named Nell.

Her house – a little cottage -- is always clean. Molly and her father eat peasant food of mostly milk and bread, sometimes with a bit of bacon or an egg or two on the side. She doesn't have any use for gourmet tidbits or spicy sauces, or even red or white wine.

As she doesn't have gout, she can dance all she wants, and she never really looses her temper. No, a modest diet, exercise, and a positive attitude are all the medicine she needs to stay healthy and strong. So she hopes that it will help her father too.

The local church is a short distance away, and Molly is only half out of breath when they find their seats.

Her father, still stubborn, refusing to use a cane, and so she can estimate his weight loss first hand. He is fragile now, looking older than he is. Today however, he at least recalls the patron of his hometown church.

Inside, the church is buzzing with life.

People gathering in small groups, exchanging pleasantries and local gossip. For some twenty minutes, they can simply be, no alcohol clouding their minds as it does in the tavern or the pressure of the economy on market day. It is a small burden to listen to the mess for roughly an hour. 

Some believers are praying in front of the altar.

The wealthy merchants have found their special seats, wearing their Sunday best, showing off their power and money. No one believes that Moriarty and Magnussen believe in anyone besides themselves.

There are some pilgrims, one or two might even be from London.

Children are playing in the dark corners, at least, until Sister Mary discovers them and drags them back to their parents. This is the House of the Lord, and Sister Mary knows all about proper (and forgets the quote from the Holy Bible: "Let the children come to me").

Today no animals have made their way into the church. Molly is a bit disappointed as she recalls a shriek by Moriarty when a particular determined goat chased him one memorable Sunday. 

Molly understands more than most of the church service as her father has taught her Latin in his better days. 

When the service is over, Sister Mary offers food for the poor. It’s never very frequent, and the town gossips that the leftover is eaten by herself as one cannot leave food to waste. Strangely enough, the quality of food has risen over the last couple of weeks, as if Sister Mary counts on this. 

Molly is called Mary when she brings her father home. She blinks away the tears, and fears that she only partly succeeds. 

Her father is snoring when the messenger arrives. It’s an invitation for a picnic. There’s no name but she can detect his handwriting everywhere. She should not, and not only because she leaves her father in the care of one of the maids, but she does it anyway.

It is early afternoon when they meet.

It’s a walk of almost a hour but she doesn't mind, picking up some flowers on her way. She toys with the idea of making a flower crown but decides against it, she is his princess no matter what. On her first meeting, she has done the “he loves me, he loves me not”-game as if she is a girl and not already grown. 

Gregory Lestrade has spread out a blanket already. There is a basket with bread, cheese, boiled eggs and some fruit. She hopes that one of the servants packed it and not his wife, but she has never asked what she tells her.

Maybe Molly Hooper could ask but she doesn’t dare.

Alas, she, too, is a coward.

* * *

The summer passes; the nights are getting longer, which makes it worse for the two lovers.

Gregory Lestrade can see Molly Hooper everyday but never have her, while Sherlock Holmes and John Watson will never see each other in broad daylight. The dark nights are the perfect hiding space, cold and damp but the heat of their bodies warms them up soon enough.

Whose fate is worse?

Think about it, and I will continue with my story.

One waits forever, and nothing changes as Gregory Lestrade is no villain but he is a coward. Maybe one day when his wife is dead, they can be happy, or so he tells himself and her forever. He is sure of his love, as Molly Hooper would wait for him, day and night, and nothing ever happens.

Another man however is a warrior, a soldier, and a man who isn't going down without a fight. His name is John Watson.

After a month or two since the incident at the clearing, John Watson has a powerful dream one night.

This time it isn't a memory from the war but the God of War himself. He stands before Watson and orders him to buckle up, "Go to Holmes, and all your misery will be gone."

Watson wakes up instantly and says to himself: "I cannot take this any longer. No matter what happens, I am going to set out for Holmes. I won't stop until I am reunited with my love. I don't care if it ends up killing me."

To put it simply, John Watson pledges to win Sherlock Holmes or give up trying.

* * *

“Turn over,” Holmes says. His lover came to him, it's an surprise but a welcomed one. 

Unknown to the guard, the blacksmith has a surprise for him as well. 

Holmes is a smart man, he can do maths. Today is an anniversary. They can have their private celebration, a thought that caught the blacksmith unaware. He, who believed to be as hard as metal, discovered a softness in his soul. 

It is this man who Holmes will yield, but tonight they will forge something new together. Holmes is observant: he knows when metal can be formed, so it's easy to deduce what his lover craves the most.

Watson opens his eyes. They're dark as coal. There's a flicker already, a spark. 

“What?”

“You heard me, John.” The guard hesitates, unsure. But Holmes isn't fooled. There's a fire starting in their loins. “If you don’t like it,” he says, low, “tell me to stop.”

Still hesitant, Watson does as he is told. He's bending to his will, it's so hot.

With his face turned away from him, pillowed on smooth, muscular arms against the sheets, Holmes slips a finger into his mouth and sucks on it before moving back between Watson's legs.

He traces the seam of Watson's balls, back and back – and then slips his finger between his cheeks and nestles it against his opening, just resting it there.

The response is immediate. Watson moans. The sound is throaty, guttural, and utterly genuine.

Holmes grabs Watson tight by the hair and pushes his face down against the mattress with a bit more force.

This is his design, his master piece. 

Watson is silent until Holmes begins to move his finger, just massaging in gentle little circles, and then Watson moans even louder into the sheets.

Holmes traces the muscles of Watson’s lower back, the dimples at the top of his ass, the scattering of blond hair at the dip of his spine. The blacksmith examines the muscles resisting his finger, deduces how easy it would be to press inside anyway, observes Watson flutter every time he does press just a little.

The blacksmith spreads Watson’s arse cheeks with his other hand, running his finger from the base of his balls up to his tailbone and back down again, watching his reactions, watching him twitch every time his finger brushes over his hole.

He moves his hand aside, bends over and spits, feeling Watson jump in surprise as he does so.

Hot, cold. 

Holmes works the salvia around Watson’s entrance with his finger, pressing a little harder now, tracing little circles around him and then laying his finger against the opening with a bit more force.

Watson just opens up for him.

There is a moment of tight resistance – and then Holmes pushes his finger inside him, feeling him gripping him, tight and hot.

Watson makes a ragged sound, hips squirming – he is definitely aroused, there is no doubt. There was never any doubt. 

“Does that feel good?” Holmes whispers.

“Yes,” Watson breathes. “Please...”

“Oh, I will...”

Holmes pulls his finger out, watching as Watson twitches at the loss of sensation.

He strokes his ass and Watson groans, rocking his hips. Both of them are already half-hard. A part of Watson is surely still mortified that Holmes has deduced his preference; he is, however, apparently shameless enough to spread his legs a little more, to cant his hips for him in blatant invitation.

“You’ve never done this before, have you,” Sherlock Holmes says lowly, and Watson shakes his head.

“No, never... Please, please.”

“That’s a shame,” the blacksmith whispers. “When you clearly need it so badly.”

“Yes, I do. Please, Sherlock, please.”

“Patience, John.”

This time when he slips a finger inside him, he does not stop with just his fingertip. He presses and feels the delicious flutter as he gives way, sinking into the knuckle. Watson clenches down hard around the intrusion, uttering a low cry, equal parts surprise and pleasure.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock Holmes sighs softly; rocking his fingers inside Watson, curling it and shifting it, letting him feel the pressure from the inside. “If I had known that you needed to be buggered this badly I would have done it a long time ago...”

Watson makes a noise suspiciously like a sob – which then degrades into a loud, keening wail as Holmes’s long finger ground against his prostate. His cock twitches sharply, heavy and erect between his thighs.

“There!” The guard cries. “There, touch me there, oh, please, touch me there again!”

“What, here?”

A curl of his finger.

“Yes! Oh, master, master, please!”

“Right here?”

“Yes, master!”

“Like this?”

“Yes, YES! Thank you, master!”

Watson is beyond himself, rocking back against Sherlock Holmes’s hand, grinding and trembling and trying his best to fuck himself on his finger.

He is wanton and his lover is not even close to done with him.

Holmes pulls his finger out, ignoring Watson’s little cry of protest, retrieving a vial of salve and unstopping it.

It is one of the salves Molly Hooper used in her shop. The young woman has bestowed it upon him, clearly unaware for what purpose the blacksmith it used instead. For many long nights, it has been for his own pleasure, but tonight, at last, he wants to share this sin of the flesh with his beloved.

Holmes spreads Watson's arse with one hand and smears the salve in the crease of his ass, pressing it into him, working him up, getting him slick, and making him ready.

Two fingers now. Watson spreads his legs, his breath hitching.

“I don’t think I have ever heard your voice so unsteady,” Holmes purrs.

Watson reaches down between his legs, lightly stroking himself as Holmes presses his fingers in. Soon he rocks back against his fingers once more, and that was when Holmes slaps his hand away.

Watson cries out, frustrated; he is slightly confused, and so aroused.

“What did I tell you? This is for me. And I can feel every time you are too worked up. You get tighter. You can’t fool me.”

Watson’s face burns, and he whimpers and rocks back against his fingers, desperate for more stimulation. However, he does listen to master’s orders: John Watson’s fingers stay away from his cock.

Holmes shifts away from him and Watson cries out, his back arching with sinful grace before he can control himself.

“No, no, come back, please, please, Sherlock, master, don’t stop...!”

Even in his frenzy, Watson can hear Holmes shifting around, can hear the soft tinkle of buckles and the creak of leather, but he cannot bring himself to look up from the sheets.

He is drenched in sweat, his back slick with it, his hair is a mess. He is trembling all over.

“You have no idea how handsome you are, John,” Holmes tells him, walking back toward the bed. Watson can hear the footfalls of his heavy boots. “All desperate. All mine. Do you want to be buggered, John Watson?”

Watson shudders and looks up with difficulty but pushes through. The limits he had yesterday or even this morning have evaporated.

The head of the guard is no fool; he knows very well that his _yes_ can be read in every fibre of his body.

Finally, at last, Holmes stands by the bed, his robes pushed aside. His cock is long, slim, and very erect. Watson desperately wants it inside him.

“The look on your face,” his master snickers. “Lie on your back.”

Watson does as he is instructed, spreading his legs, his chest rising and falling rapidly. A blush has spread all the way down to his chest, his hands shaking as he holds his legs apart.

Holmes moves in, making him yelp as he grips his bent legs by the knees and all but folds his lover in half. The marks on his fingers from the hot fire are burned like brand marks on Watson’s own flesh.

Both men are going to forge a new unit tonight.

Holmes slicks his cock with the oil, Watson’s eyes following his every movement. Then he positions himself between his legs. The ex-soldier feels the head of his cock nudge up against him, and he bit his lip, turning his head to the side and gasping softly.

“Do you want it?”

“Sherlock...”

“Do you, John?”

“Please...”

“Do you want it, John?”

“Bugger me, master!”

Holmes obliges.

He takes his Watson, spreading him, pressing into him slowly enough. Sherlock feels the release of pressure as the head of the cock pops inside him, and his Watson confirms it by crying out, the sound full of such raw emotion that Sherlock feels something twist in his chest.

How long has he, his Watson, wanted this? How long has his John needed it?

Sherlock Holmes makes a low, hungry sound in the back of his throat, and presses all the way in to the hilt.

John Watson screams.

* * *

Reader, listen to me for two or three minutes, and I am going to tell you a tale about women sitting in the tavern, and no men among them. You know the tavern already, the one in Doyle in which most times the men drink. You heard they tales of conquests already, and about Mrs Hudson's role.

The Wife of Doyle - so they call her - has demanded that once a month all women are allowed in the tavern. Not to serve the men, but to talk about the men they serve, in life and bed. No men is allowed to enter the tavern then. 

Oh, I can assure you that a woman talk is so different when no male gaze involved.

Let's take a peak.

"My husband measures his cock with his clerk. Dear Thomas, I understand: you have to test if it shrieks when he sucks you down as it's so shameful and perverse. You have to repeat it regularly because the results will change. Once I suggested to him to try out a harlot, and oh, he was aghast. Apparently, it's not any wet mouth that he seeks after. Small mercies, I suppose, as he otherwise might order me to my knees."

"He mounts me like an animal. Treats me like one too. Thank God I never born him a daughter as no female should bear my fate."

"I'm the lucky one as mine only spills his semen once a year. It's his birthday gift. He can jerk off with his hand all year, hoping and dreaming to breed me - and on the day I am prepared so his sperm doesn't take root."

"Mine is useless. No, hear me out. Yes, he's good with numbers which is useful for a artisan. He isn't bad with the neighbours and lets me visit my sister. He drinks only his fare share. Sometimes he helps me clear the table. Maybe he even likes me alright. But I can squeeze him as long as I like in bed, his prick lies still, always."

"I had one that was all fine during daylight, but when it went dark, just like the temperature dropped, so did his cock. I swear: a grown-up woman in the firelight and the young loose everything! I joke you not: I could see him freeze alongside his member!"

"I sat next to one man once in the tavern. All evening he was drinking and eating like a beast. He swore that he was starving, and not only for food. Yet, when I had him in my bedchamber at last, he was partly grunting and partly snoring already - and his pick had the size of a sausage!"

"If their cocks were for sale, they would not be worth anything."

* * *

We never tell their stories, at least not in the open.

If we ever let them slip then as a general warning. We make this clear by gifting them with a sad ending.

If they are fortunate, only one of them dies and the other has to bury him and mourn him as their forever after. It might be twisted version if a fairy tale, but that's what fairies deserve, don't they.

Imagine that there were happy people, that they carved out a life of their own. Can you imagine their pure existence?

Can you imagine that there were people who know about them but decided to look the other way, or even supported them in secret?

**Who lives, who dies, who tells your story. **

**Their story is rarely heard.**

> Imagine you are on a journey from London to Canterbury - would you tell their story?

tbc

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to my beta totallysilvergirl who not only polished my language but was a fact-checker extraordinaire. All remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Kudos are love. Comments are very welcome.


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